


The Alchemy of Love

by wintercealde



Category: Robin Hood (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/F, F/M, Foursome, M/M, Multi, Sedoretu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercealde/pseuds/wintercealde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During her last Nightwatchman gig before her marriage, Marian is caught while helping a woman in need through the forest. Grateful for her aid, Isabella convinces her brother to spare Marian and a friendship is born. Though each have their own goals, Guy, Robin, Isabella and Marian are forced to work together to heal old wounds, learn to trust, and ultimately save Nottingham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Ever-Fixed Mark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/42803) by [imperfectcircle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/imperfectcircle). 



> Based on the social structure of Ursula K. LeGuin's Planet of O, where society is divided into two halves, or _moieties_ , and marriages are comprised of two men and two women. LeGuin uses the word _sedoretu_ to refer to a union between four people; within the sedoretu there are four marriages, two heterosexual and two homosexual. In the interest of being period- and linguistically appropriate, I've chosen to use the Old French word _alyaunce_ (alliance, betrothal, union) instead. It's pronounced pretty much how it looks. You can find more information on the sedoretu [here](http://www.ursulakleguin.com/Birthday_Excerpts.html#Mountain), though the prologue is intended to lay out the basics.
> 
> According to the rules of this society, a relationship between Malcolm and Ghislaine would have been taboo, so in this story I've dispatched with the backstory from 3x11. Guy and Isabella had a similarly tragic childhood, but they did not grow up in Nottingham.
> 
> Many thanks to LadyKate for her wonderful beta work!

ALLAN

“I can't see why it bothers him that much. I mean, I see why he's not happy about it, because Guy's up in Locksley with his girl and we're out here with a price on our heads, but you can't get married with just two people, you know? And who's gonna marry Gisborne?”

A smile momentarily softened the lines on Will's face. He worried too much, Allan always thought, and now his thoughts were far away with Robin, who'd taken two whole handfuls of arrows off into the woods without a word, leaving Much to tell them all that Marian was going to marry Gisborne.

“Besides Marian, you mean?” Djaq said, settling down with them, a bowl of stew in hand.

Allan snorted.

“Explain it to me. Marriage in Christian lands is with two men and two women?”

Will nodded, while Allan asked, “What do you mean 'in Christian lands'? Isn't that what everyone does?”

Djaq shook her head. “In my homeland, it is one man and one woman, or one man and several women, if he can afford it. And we don't have moiety.”

Will blinked. “Then how do you know who you can marry?”

Allan was occupied with a more practical concern. “Just one man?” he asked. The idea of having more than one . . . available woman in a marriage was attractive, certainly, but it felt unbalanced, incomplete. Unless . . . “So does that mean all the women—” Allan stopped, for out of the corner of his eye he noticed Will shaking his head as wildly as one could while trying not to be noticed by the person sitting next to them. He realized, suddenly, that maybe this was not the sort of thing that was entirely appropriate to ask Djaq. Normally he felt as comfortable with her as with any of the boys, but occasionally he remembered she was a woman, and men weren't supposed to talk to the same way to women as they did amongst themselves, even if they were of your own moiety.

Djaq wickedly left a long pause before she supplied, eyes twinkling, “ . . . share?”

Allan shrugged.

“It does. And marriages there are like marriages here—you marry who your parents want you to, or if you're lucky, who you want.”

“It doesn't sound so bad. Half the fun's gone if you only marry women, though.” Allan looked to Will for agreement, but he was doing that thing where Allan could tell that there was a lot going on inside but Will wasn't saying any of it.

Will only held his gaze for a moment, and then he turned to Djaq, asking, “What do you think of the way we do it?” Allan stirred his stew to hide his interest in the question.

Djaq considered it for a moment. When she spoke, it was more carefully than before. “I think it could be good if you marry the right people, like any marriage. Though,” she added slowly, “how would it work if I didn't have moiety?”

Allan looked up at that, and he could almost swear Djaq was trying not to smile. “We could give you one, I guess.”

“I think you'd be Morning,” Will said, not quite casually enough to fool Allan.

“I think you're right,” he agreed around a mouthful of stew, and Will shot him a grateful look. “So you would need a Morning husband,” he said, barreling on. Just to be sure she understood. “Me, for example. And then we'd need an Evening man, and an Evening woman. Will is Evening, so, in theory, there's almost a whole marriage right here.”

“Completely theoretically,” Djaq said.

“Completely.”


	2. Chapter One

ROBIN

Punching Guy of Gisborne in the face was much more satisfying than Robin had thought that it would be. His hand ached from the shock of knuckles against bone, but getting to hear that hissing intake of breath, to feel Gisborne's jaw give way under his hand and see him flail for balance was no comparison to the many, many times he had imagined doing it. He almost didn't mind getting punched in the face in return.

After all, it gave him an excuse to swing again in. And Robin had a lot more to put into his blows than simple wish-fulfillment. The other man had taken his home, his people, had helped push him out of power and turn Nottingham into something unrecognizable. He was trying to take Marian. He had already tried to take Richard.

In the gully below him, his covered in debris from the forest floor and his face dark with bruises, Gisborne staggered to his feet yet again. This was going to take a while, but Robin found he didn't much mind. In fact, he would prefer if it did.

 

MARIAN

“Do things like this happen often?”

Marian tore her gaze away from forest; Robin and Guy were no longer in sight and she knew it to be a vain hope that either would return any time soon. She turned towards the woman at her side. Ismena of Blyth wore a mix of anger, worry, and thoughtfulness on her handsome face. Marian couldn't blame her anger, for Ismena had lost a necklace of gold and emeralds that was likely a family heirloom to Robin's “donation box,” but she couldn't quite bring herself to feel bad about it either. “Robin Hood has shaken things up a bit lately,” Marian said, and perhaps it was wicked of her to do so. But it was clear to see that Guy had not invited Ismena and William to their engagement party simply out of politeness, rather because they were both wealthy, their families held strategic seats in the north of the shire, and because William was Morning and Ismena was Evening.

Marian was more pleased to see the thinning of Ismena's lips into a discreet frown than she would ever have admitted. “It was dangerous for him to go alone.”

“I think it was romantic,” William interjected, approaching them from the hall and slipping his hand under Ismena's arm.

“Then why didn't you go after my necklace?”

“I don't know what I'd be dealing with,” William replied smoothly. “But apparently Gisborne trusts his own strength.”

“It was foolish,” Ismena said, turning back towards the manor house. Marian followed her gaze. Scattered partygoers were slowly reappearing, no doubt only to collect their horses and leave. Ismena seemed to be formulating the same idea, and said as much. “We should go if we want to reach Blyth by sundown. Lady Marian, it was a pleasure to meet you.” Her words seemed genuine and, truth be told, Marian could find nothing objectionable about the woman. But that did not mean she wanted to marry her. She took Ismena's proffered hands and kissed her on each cheek, politely, perfunctorily, then quickly drew away. Kissing Sir William was not so awkward, for being Morning, like her, he was more like a cousin or brother than anything.

“If Sir Guy returns, please give him our thanks and tell him I'll see him at the council meeting next week,” William said. Marian felt a frisson of anger at his nonchalance toward a man that he might marry. But she smiled and nodded, and promised she would.

Marian had to make a few more awkward goodbyes, but it was not long before she and her father and their servants were on their way back to Knighton. It was a relief to be away from Locksley and the party and its formalities, to be able to forget her engagement; yet a new worry had taken its place. What if Guy killed Robin? Or Robin killed Guy? Something had changed between the two men—she had never seen that look on Robin's face before—and she feared the outcome.

So wrapped up was she in her worries that she did not hear what her father said at first. She blinked at him and he repeated it. “What did you think of Sir William and Lady Ismena?”

Marian sighed. “It is nothing I need to worry about now. I told Sir Guy that I didn't want to marry until the king returns. We don't have any idea when that will be.”

She did not like the suggestion of disapproval in her father's glance. “The De Buslis have been in Nottinghamshire as long as we have, and they own twice as much. Lady Ismena is well-educated and accomplished. I think she would be a good companion for you.”

“I know, Father.”

“Marian,” he said, and his voice was very gentle, “An engagement cannot be indefinite. I want you to be have some choice in the matter while there's still time. I want you to be happy.”

“I know,” she replied, chastened. Better to choose before Guy did it for her. But how could she do so when she hadn't yet reconciled herself to marrying Guy, perhaps even marrying at all? How could she start planning for a life she did not want to lead?

 

ISABELLA

Isabella couldn't even remember what started it, but it was certain to have been something small, for that's how it always was. The initial “fault” was followed by three tense days of alternating silence and petty barbs, interjected by Mahaut's attempts to persuade her to give in and Geoffrey's pointed eye-rolling. Geoffrey had long ago learned not to interfere, and mostly tolerated the spats between Isabella and her Morning husband because of his feelings for Mahaut, who had never really stopped thinking of her as something of a pet project, and Edward who . . . was Edward.

And because it was Edward, on the fourth day it all erupted into a screaming match complete with thrown tableware, a bloodied lip on Isabella's part and, when she tried to retaliate, several hours locked into the small closet in the wine cellar that held the most expensive wines. Only Edward and Geoffrey held keys to it. In the absolute darkness Isabella had no idea how much time passed but she spent it alternating between tears and rage; even, once or twice, contemplating pulling the taps out of all the casks of wine, no matter the damage to her dress or the consequences.

But as time passed in the cold, dark, cramped space, her passionate feelings of anger and righteous indignation began to give way to melancholy, emptiness. It was a pattern she was familiar with now, but that never made it any better. For a while it would be easier to obey Edward, but eventually one of them would push too far, Isabella would refuse to back down, and the cycle would begin all over again.

When Edward let her out that evening, she could not meet his eyes. He lifted up her chin with a finger and subjected her to his stern blue gaze. “I wish you would not make me do this,” he said, a remorseful look on his face. Isabella knew it was for all of the wrong reasons, but the only thing she could manage to say was, “I'm sorry.” She wasn't really sure what she meant by it, but Edward took it well, and his expression softened. “Go upstairs and apologize. You made Mahaut very upset.”

Isabella nodded numbly and began to walk back through the cellar as Edward stayed behind to lock the door.

She found Geoffrey upstairs, reading through the account books by the fire. It was as if she were watching herself from a distance as she stood before him contritely and heard herself say, “I am sorry for the trouble I caused today.”

He raised his eyebrows over the account book.

“And this week,” she amended.

Geoffrey nodded. “You ought to be, after all that. I would have beat you until you couldn't walk for a week, but Edward's always had a soft spot for you. I wish you would learn to treat him the way he deserves to be treated.”

Isabella stood dumbly. She did not have the energy to respond to that, to be angry about everything in his words that was wrong or unfair.

Eventually Geoffrey's attention returned to his ledger and Isabella slipped away silently. Mahaut was in their bedroom, her maid brushing out her hair. “Bella! You were gone so long this time. I saved you dinner.”

Isabella saw a dish of food on her dressing table, but she was not hungry. She was not anything but tired. She lay down, not bothering to undress. She heard Mahaut dismiss the maid, then felt the bed shift as she sat down.

“How are you, dearest?”

Isabella did not respond. After a moment, Mahaut began to stroke her hair. Her deft fingers began working out the hair pins that had not come out in the tumult earlier, and Isabella let her do as she pleased, though she only wished to be left alone. Once, she had found Mahaut's ministrations comforting, but now she only resented them, for she knew what was to follow.

“I wish you would not do this to yourself,” Mahaut said after a few moments. “It always makes you so sad. And you must know it's terribly upsetting to hear all that yelling. You should think of the children, Bella.”

Isabella buried her face deeper into the crook of her elbow. They had two living children, both Morning, both young, and she knew that Mahaut was right about them, at least. She wished she could be like Mahaut sometimes—obedient, content, seemingly unaware of her fetters. It would be so much easier to be good like Edward wanted if she didn't know there were other ways to be, if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes among her parents.

Isabella let out a deep sigh. In response, Mahaut swept her hair, now unbound, to the side and softly kissed down the back of her neck to the curve of her shoulder. Isabella did not want intimacy now, but she knew Mahaut thought it would comfort her—and that she would take it personally if she were refused. Isabella rolled over and looked up at her wife. Mahaut's dark hair shaded her face from the candle light, but Isabella knew what her expression would be: creased with concern, but not concern for her, for someone Mahaut had constructed. Isabella reached up and touched her cheek, wondering how they could have been married so long and yet be so disconnected. Misinterpreting her touch, Mahaut smiled and leaned forward to kiss her.

 

GUY

By the day of the council meeting, a week after the spectacularly failed engagement party, the burning had mostly faded away from Guy's arm. The skin where his tattoo had been was still an angry pink and sensitive to the touch, each brush of fabric a painful jolt that reminded him of Hood. Guy had spent the week in a funk, as unhappy with Vaizey as the Sheriff was with him, irritated at Marian's continued coolness—she hadn't even smiled when he'd returned her ring—and worried that Sir William and Lady Ismena would now abandon all thought of a marriage.

There had been some consolation in learning that Marian had spoken for him when Hood had held him in the forest, that she had nearly burst into tears in the Great Hall. He wished she'd show that much feeling when he was around.

But the one thing that he was genuinely happy about was having seen Hood completely lose his head. He always acted so superior, with his cocky self-assurance and irritating smirks. He also had that ability to incredibly, inexplicable come out on top, despite Guy's careful planning and greater resources. Hood was disadvantaged, but never completely undone until now. Guy was pleased that he had finally been able to turn the tables and get under _Hood's_ skin. The fact that he had the man's lands and former betrothed were mere happy coincidence, but now Guy finally knew his weakness.

His mood bolstered by these thoughts, Guy took the stairs down to the floor of the Great Hall easily. Upon seeing William de Busli among those already there, a bit of his newly-found confidence evaporated. de Busli caught his eye and excused himself from the others, coming to meet Guy at the foot of the stairs. His look was appraising, but pleasant, unlike the Sheriff's uncomfortable measuring gaze. “Glad to see you're looking well,” de Busli said with an easy smile, making Guy glad that his bruises had mostly faded. “Did you manage to get the ring back?”

“I did.”

de Busli seemed more pleased by this than Guy would have expected. “I told Ismena you would.”

This unexpected confidence set some of Guy's worry to rest. “I am sorry I could not get her necklace as well.”

de Busli waved a hand in dismissal. “I can buy her another.”

“She was not too upset by the disturbance, I hope?” Guy's question was a careful testing of the waters. It seemed as if Sir William was not particularly bothered by Hood's incursion, but the delicate sensibilities of a lady could be another matter.

“She'll be fine,” William replied nonchalantly. “I think she will like you if you get the chance to speak in calmer circumstances. You should come to Tickhill,” he said suddenly, his voice warming. “Next week. My fathers have just gotten some falcons they want to try out—we'll make a party of it.”

Guy was deeply gratified to be invited to the de Buslis' castle in the northern part of the shire. It boded very well indeed for his hopes of union. “I would be happy to attend,” he replied, his voice husky with pleasure.

“And please, invite Lady Marian as well.”

“With pleasure,” he said, just before the Sheriff burst into the hall above them. He bowed his head politely and went to take his spot at Vaizey's side. He did not think of Hood at all for the rest of the afternoon.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some unpleasant content between Isabella and Thornton, but it isn't graphic or prolonged.

MARIAN

Marian had always enjoyed riding, and now, as summer had cooled into fall, she found herself escaping the house more and more to go on long rides. It was too quiet in the village after the bustle of Nottingham; even after several years the house felt too large and empty with only two people for the servants to fuss over. She and her father had done their best to keep their spirits up when they had moved permanently from the city to their family's lands, and after a few months they had learned to fill their days with routines of meals and work and visits and simple pleasures. But in the pauses in their conversations there was always the memory of what should be there but was not.

She liked better to be outdoors, where the past did not seem so heavy, nor the future so close; right now there was only sun and clear blue sky, the feel of her horse cantering beneath her and the first hint of the brilliant autumn colors that were to come. Marian found it easier to think on the move, and lately there was much for her to mull over. She was still upset about Lambert's death and had purposely avoided Nottingham in the days since so she would not have to speak to Guy. She had little confidence that the marriage would actually happen, but if it did . . . how, a small voice asked, could she reconcile her conscience with marrying a man who would kill his friend for political advancement?

Easier to think of Robin and his arms around her and how it had felt comforting and familiar, almost like old days. But it wasn't, she reminded herself. He had changed in ways that she couldn't understand. Then again, he must feel the same about her.

Marian arrived on no grand conclusions on her ride, but she returned home feeling refreshed, as if things weren't quite as complicated as they'd seemed before. In the house, she was greeted with the now-familiar sight of her father at his books, at the small table below the south-facing window, where the warmth of afternoon lingered.

“Hello,” she called breezily, running her hands through her hair and heading towards the stairs to change.

“A letter came while you were gone,” her father said, closing his book.

“A letter?” Marian frowned and turned her course towards the table, where a folded bit of parchment lay. It was addressed to both her and her father and had been opened. It was an invitation, she read, to a hawking party at the de Buslis' seat at Tickhill Castle.

Marian folded the letter and dropped it on the table. Invitations from the de Buslis had been rare since Vaizey had become Sheriff; the purpose of this one was clear. She had hoped, after the engagement party, that Sir William would no longer consider an alyaunce with Guy, but she was not so lucky.

“The weather has been poor for hawking,” Marian said. “I do not think it would be amusing.”

“I have already said we would go.”

Marian looked at her father in distress. “Father, you know what this is about.”

“I do. And regardless of my feelings on the matter, I think it would be ill-advised to refuse.” He started toward her. “Marian,” he said, more gently, “I am not asking you to marry Sir William. I am asking you to go to a party. The de Buslis would be good friends to have.”

Her father was right. So far north, they would not have felt the presence of the Sheriff as Marian and her father did. A de Busli presence that could be felt in the south—that was friendly to them—could take some of the pressure off of them. Marian did not like it; she already felt as if she had yielded too much. But her father had been so good to her about the Nightwatchman, and so she acquiesced.

“Very well.”

Her father smiled a little. “It doesn't have to be anything more than a friendly visit if that's what you want.”

Marian tried to return her father's smile, but she knew that other people would have different ideas.

 

ROBIN

He watched her awhile before he let her know he was there. From his vantage point on the roof he could see her pull dresses and jewels from her chests, laying them out on her bed and debating the merits of each with her maid. Marian seemed preoccupied, not happy or excited. It gave him a grim sort of pleasure. For it made him melancholy to watch her so, literally peering in on a life that should include him but didn't. He couldn't help but wonder if all hope for them to be partners in an alyaunce was lost—for he was the one she'd come to when she'd heard of the death of Gisborne's friend, and he could still feel her in his arms. But it was foolish to think about that as long as he was an outlaw. She deserved better.

Finally Marian's maid left the room. Robin grabbed hold of the beam above the window and swung himself inside.

“You look like you're packing.”

He grinned as Marian started and turned to face him. She frowned at him playfully and then went back to what she was doing. “My father and I are going on a visit.”

“Where?”

“Tickhill,” Marian replied, her eyes on her work. “There is to be a hunting party.”

At Marian's answer, his melancholy sharpened. Robin sauntered over to the bed, surveying the dresses she had laid out. “William de Busli was at your engagement party, wasn't he?”

“He was.”

Robin drew a finger along the embroidered trim of a gown. “William de Busli is also Morning.”

Marian snatched up the gown. “So are a lot of people.”

“Is Gisborne trying to bring him into the betrothal?” He words came out with an edge, even though he didn't mean them to, for he knew he had no right to her any longer. It didn't mean he _felt_ any different, or that he suspected that she'd retained some of her feelings for him as well.

Marian pursed her lips and set to folding the dress. “How is that any of your business?” she asked coolly, though the fact that she still did not look at him spoke volumes.

“I thought you did not want to marry Gisborne,” Robin replied, leaning against the post at the foot of the bed.

“I don't.”

“Well, bringing someone else in will make it a lot more difficult to get out.”

“I know that,” Marian snapped, setting the now-folded gown onto the bed and fussing with the trim.

“So why keep up the charade? You'll have Gisborne sniffing around for as long as you do.”

Marian straightened and turned towards him. “What other choice do I have, Robin? My father's position is precarious and mine even more so. The Sheriff thinks—he knows—that I have helped you. As much as I don't like what it entails, Sir Guy can provide protection for both me and my father.”

Robin crossed his arms, feeling the anger that had simmered ever since he had discovered Gisborne's treason flare up again. “But how do you know that? Only through him. He could be—”

“Lying to get me to marry him?” Her mouth was pursed, her eyebrows arched.

It had been the wrong thing to say, though he wouldn't put it past Gisborne. Stubbornly, he stuck his course and nodded.

Marian rolled her eyes. “He wasn't lying. Now, if you have nothing further to say, I have things to do.” She turned away and began setting things into a leather travelling satchel.

Robin dropped his arms in frustration. How did she not see how foolish she was being? How did she not see that she should be keeping her distance, not getting in closer? That Gisborne did not really love her, that he only thought of her as a possession. That the Morning man in her alyaunce should not be William de Busli.

It should be him.

But he couldn't dredge up words that had been hidden deep inside for years, not when she was being like this, all cool and formal and distant. “Alright then,” he said, instead of all the things he really wanted to.

“Alright,” Marian replied. There was an awkward pause as they stood, looking at each other, and for a moment Robin felt keenly the loss of those times when the two of them had known each other so well they didn't even have to speak, because they were Morning and they were to be married and they were as close as any two people could be in this world.

And then he shrugged it all off, or told himself that he had, and swung back out of the window.

 

MARIAN

As she had expected, Guy had insisted on travelling with them to Tickhill. Her father, though not without a moment of hesitation and a glance in her direction, accepted Guy's offer of a guarded escort through the forest.

Thankfully, though, their ride through the forest was uneventful. Once they had left Sherwood behind and the road began to follow the rolling hills of farmland, the mood in the small party began to change dramatically. Marian's shoulders eased, she could hear Guy's men joking amongst themselves, and Guy's wary watchfulness eased to something that could almost be called cheer. He asked about the farms they passed, which were less and less familiar to him the farther they got from the city. He told her of his plans for Locksley, which she listened to with only half an ear because she knew he was trying to impress her.

They stopped for lunch and to let her rest; Marian didn't need it but she was grateful for her father's sake. After lunch she was able to persuade Guy that she wanted to ride with her father for a bit, so for the first time that day he left her side. Conversation with her father was infrequent, and eventually Marian found her thoughts drifting to her exasperating encounter with Robin a few days ago. Perversely, his accusations made her want to give Guy greater credit—for all his awkwardness, he had made every effort to see to her comfort on the journey, and had even had a set of ivory-inlaid hairpins sent over the day before.

Yet despite her irritation with Robin had _said_ , she regretted the way that they had parted, that they always seemed to part—moving in different directions, never quite seeing eye-to-eye as they once had. Marian wished she had not been so callous in speaking about the betrothal to Robin. She was pleased—or not pleased, precisely, she couldn't quite put a word to the feeling—that Robin was bothered so much at the thought of her entering into an alyaunce of which he would not be a part. But never so bothered as to tell her she had a reason not to take someone else as her Morning husband. Yet even if he did speak, it would not be enough to change her course. For he should have stayed to be with her and build a life and look after the shire. But he and Henry had wanted to go on Crusade and now Helena was married in Suffolk and Henry was buried somewhere in the desert and Robin was outlawed and Marian was alone. No, it was not enough to know he was not happy with her decision.

Then her father called out to her, and Marian was no longer left to her thoughts.

*

“I see you are not much for embroidery,” Ismena said, holding up the fine gown that Marian had brought for evenings.

Marian felt her cheeks flush. “I find it tedious.” She had expected things to be somewhat uncomfortable when Ismena had offered to help her unpack, but she hadn't expected to be judged straight off.

“No matter,” Ismena said, running a hand over the gown to smooth out the wrinkles, “I'm good enough at it for the both of us.”

Marian looked again at the other woman. “I did not think you were inclined to the match after Robin Hood stole your necklace.”

“I am still not inclined to the match,” Ismena replied. “But no one has asked my opinion of it. It is nothing against you,” she said, looking suddenly self-conscious. “But I do not know Sir Guy and I do not like the idea of a husband constantly feuding with the man whose house he now owns.”

Marian sat on the bed that would be hers. She was a little more comfortable now to know that Ismena felt the same way she did—that she wasn't trying to push for things Marian was unsure she wanted to give. “I do not like that either,” Marian confessed.

Ismena smiled tentatively. “William thinks it would be advantageous to ally himself with Sir Guy. My father agrees.”

Marian looked down at the forgotten pair of stockings in her hands. “Sir Guy means well,” she said, and she believed it to be the truth, at least with respect to her. She knew that defending Guy to Ismena was the last thing she ought to do, but part of her felt she ought to try to assuage Ismena's fears if she had no say in the matter. At least, Marian thought, her father listened to her wishes and would support whatever decision she made. Finally, she said, “I think he will try his best to make his spouses happy.”

Ismena looked at her thoughtfully, but did not respond.

*

It was a busy few days. There was the requisite admiring of the barons' new peregrines and hunting, as well as less-than-subtle attempts to throw her into conversation with Lord de Busli and Sir Godfrey of Blyth, not to mention Ismena and William. Marian had not known Ismena at all before the engagement party, and William only slightly, mostly through his reputation for being something of a rake. And she could see why, for when he turned his attention to her he somehow made her feel like she was the only thing in the room. Yet as his attentions were unwanted, Marian found it unnerving rather than flattering. Ismena was clearly smitten with him, if reserved, and in return William was conscientious towards her—maybe even, at times, tender.

Marian noted, as she watched from the corner of her eye, that the awkwardness Guy always displayed around her seemed to fall away in Ismena's presence. The natural kinship they possessed in being of the same moiety was perhaps why Guy seemed so much more relaxed with Ismena, though Marian didn't know quite what to make of the fact that he had somehow managed to make her laugh once or twice and, from across the room, appeared . . . suave, almost. He was also more self-possessed around Sir William than Marian would have expected, but there was also tension between them, a wariness in Guy's posture and manner that he tried to cover with false confidence.

Despite its diversions, the party felt like several days of gauging who said what to whom, how one person got on with another, how well someone had impressed someone's parents, and the constant feeling of dozens of pairs of eyes on one at all times.

Sometimes, it all just made Marian want to scream.

On the last day of the visit, the women went to pick the last of the blackberries from the hedge at the back of the garden while the men amused themselves at the lists. Marian took the opportunity to stray a little from the group, following the hedge back until it began to grow unruly and lose itself among the weeds beyond the edge of the garden. The solitude was welcome after so many days in constant company.

The parents all seemed to be in favor of the match, beginning to use “will” instead of “would,” and Marian could feel the walls beginning to close around her. Guy could be delayed, but could the powerful Lord de Busli and his husband? So lost in her thoughts, Marian reached for a berry high above her head. As she plucked it from the bramble, her hand jerked back onto a thorn. She dropped the berry and put her hand to her mouth as a drop of bright red blood welled up on the back of her hand.

Guy appeared next to her suddenly and stooped to pick up her errant blackberry. “You dropped this,” he said, holding it out to her.

Marian lowered her hand. “Oh—thank you.”

“Let me take that,” he said, and she reluctantly let him lift the basket from her arm so she could draw out her handkerchief and press it to the back of her hand.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Marian shook her head. “It's just a scratch. It will stop bleeding in a moment.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“It's nothing, Sir Guy,” Marian replied with an awkward laugh. “Just a hazard of blackberry picking.”

Guy nodded and then, after a moment, began to pick the berries at the top of the hedge, the ones that had been out of her reach. “Have you had an enjoyable visit?” he asked.

“The de Buslis have been very generous hosts,” she replied.

Guy looked at her, seeming to sense that there were things hidden beneath her words. “Lord Walter is formidable, is he not?” he asked, referring to William's father, the Lord de Busli by birth and blood. “He reminds me of my Morning father.”

Marian's interest was piqued. Guy often talked about family, but almost never about his own. “What was he like?” she ventured.

He was quiet a moment, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. “I don't remember him as much as I would like to. My fathers left for the Holy Land when I was a boy. He died there. But I remember that he always pushed me to be the best that I could be. He was not affectionate, but . . .” he paused again, his eyes slipping to hers. “But I could always tell that he loved me,” Guy finished quietly.

Marian did not know what to say. She knew so little of Guy, mostly by choice; she did not ask personal questions of him because she did not want to invite intimacy. Now she felt a moment of connection with him because she had lost her Evening mother at a similar age, and immediately resented the feeling. Marian wanted to say something snappish, to reinstate the distance between them, but to do so would be unkind, and so she covered her confusion by starting to pick blackberries again. They worked for a few minutes in silence and slowly Marian began to relax. If she was really to marry Guy—which was looking increasingly likely—they would have to find some genuine connection if they wanted their life to be better than cold and miserable.

Marian ventured a glance at Guy; he was unselfconsciously hunting through the foliage for ripe berries, his black leather uniform looking incongruous amongst the tangle of plants—with the berry basket on his arm, even amusing. He saw her looking, and smiled, and Marian could suddenly feel her heart speed up in her chest. That surprised her more than anything. It was just nervousness, she told herself, and the strangeness of being so alone and so close to him. Marian could tell the moment when Guy grew self-conscious, for his smile abruptly grew strained and his gaze darkened. Marian looked away under pretense of hunting for more berries, her relief that the moment had passed marred by a stab of disappointment.

 

ISABELLA

“Marzipan, Bella?”

Isabella took a bit of almond paste that had been shaped and colored like a peach, then passed the tray on to the woman sitting on her other side. Mahaut had already turned her attention back to the story that Lady Bamber was relating animatedly.

“I think it's not long before we hear of a betrothal,” she said, amusement thick in her voice. Lady Bamber's eldest daughter sighed, while a few other women murmured their approval.

“I heard your nephew is practically betrothed as well,” one of the ladies said.

“You are all terrible gossips,” Lady Bamber replied, but it was clear she was pleased to have something to tell. “It's about time, anyways, William is nearly thirty. For an heir, he's been utterly remiss.”

“Who are they?” another lady urged, the wistfulness in her voice suggesting that she was remembering her own betrothal days.

“His wife will be Ismena of Blyth, of course—it's been agreed on since they were children—and the Morning marriage will be Marian of Knighton—you know, the one who was to marry the Earl of Huntingdon and poor Henry Mortimer? And I don't know much about the Evening man, but he's Lieutenant to the Sheriff in Nottingham. His name is Sir Guy, Guy of Gisborne.”

Isabella stiffened. News of her brother was the last thing she had expected to hear at Lady Bamber's garden party—in fact, it was the first news she had had of him in years. They hadn't so much fallen out as fallen apart, but Guy's increasing busyness, coupled with her steadily growing resentment, meant that their correspondence had all but dried up years ago. Isabella hadn't even known he was living in Nottingham.

“Oh!” Mahaut said suddenly, startling Isabella from her thoughts. “That's your brother, isn't it? I can't believe he didn't tell us!”

All eyes in the room were suddenly on Isabella. “He's a terrible correspondent,” she said, forcing her expression into feigned dismay.

“We'll all be family!” Mahaut cried, laying her hand on Lady Bamber's arm.

Isabella struggled to answer the flood of questions that came about her brother. There was much she didn't know, for they were practically strangers now, and it took some effort to keep her answers light. She no longer thought of him very often, save when she was feeling nostalgic for her childhood, or particularly despairing of her marriage. But her new-found connexions meant that Isabella was very much in demand for the rest of the party. She found that it became easier to talk about him, at least, and soon Isabella was warming to all the attention despite its source.

And that was perhaps why she was freer with her smiles than normal at dinner that evening, and quicker with her laughs. Her dinner partner, Lord Bamber's much younger (and handsomer) brother, was also quite witty, and she did not hold herself in check as much as she normally did when Edward and Geoffrey were present.

“Lady Isabella,” the younger Lord Bamber said, as the party left the tables, “this dinner has been delightful. Whyever did I leave this charming country for that cursed Saracen waste?”

“Because you did not know me then, my lord,” she said, and he laughed heartily at that. Isabella's own smile died when she saw Edward approaching them, his face set in a mask of tight civility.

“My lady, it grows late. Attend me.”

Isabella murmured hasty excuses, and then followed Edward out of the room, her good cheer quickly evaporating.

“My god, you were practically all over him,” Edward hissed, once they had left the room.

“I was only being polite,” Isabella protested. Edward was at his worst when he was jealous, and she was anxious to defuse the situation quickly. Because it could get much, much worse.

“You were acting like a whore,” he said, rounding on her. “You shame me.” He took off again in the direction of their room, his angry strides covering ground faster than she could easily keep up with.

His words fell like a slap. Besides being cruel, they were ridiculous. Lord Bamber's brother was Evening, like her, which meant that there would never be anything between them. Not that that made any difference to her husband. Isabella hurried to catch up with him. “Edward, forgive me. I forgot myself,” she said, apologies so familiar they meant little to her anymore. “But our conversation was only that, it meant nothing.”

He turned on her, and quicker than she could react he was pushing her back against the wall, his hands digging into her shoulders. Isabella almost lost her footing. “Don't lie to me,” he said, his voice low and taut.

“I'm not. I love you, you know that.”

He laughed in her face, a dry, humorless laugh. “You would leave me the second you had the chance.”

Isabella glared back at him, unable to help herself. It was true, especially now with such unfair accusations thrown at her. But she knew better than to do anything to anger Edward further—particularly tell him the truth. With some effort she lowered her eyes demurely and said, “Edward, please don't be angry. I won't speak with him again.”

“You're damned right you won't.” Then he took her by the wrist and dragged her the rest of the way to their room. Mahaut and Geoffrey shared it with them, but no doubt they wouldn't return for some time. Geoffrey was far too ready to indulge Edward when he got into one of his moods.

The door had scarcely closed behind her before the first blow fell. Isabella lost count of how many times she had apologized before Edward was finally convinced of her repentance and satisfied himself by laying claim to her. Normally, sick and weary by this point, Isabella would mean her words of reform. But tonight they were just words, slipping off her tongue and hiding what was really in her heart. For a few hours, she had tasted life as it could be, and a seed had been planted in her mind. Nottingham was not so far from Shrewsbury, and she knew that Guy now had power and connexions. If she could find her way to Nottingham, perhaps she could convince Guy to use his position as leverage, as a threat to Edward. Perhaps, even, though she barely dared hope it, he would allow her full protection. And she would never have to see any of her spouses again.

 

GUY

The last night of their visit to Tickhill was clear and cool, but pleasant, so the party stayed out late into the night, sharing wine and conversation. Marian was one of the first to excuse herself, which caused Guy a pang of sadness, but when he thought back on the quiet moment they'd shared in the berry patch, he was somewhat heartened. She was opening up to him, he just had to continue to be patient. Everyone began to trickle away after that, and when the last had gone, Sir William approached him. “There's a bit of that fine burgundy left that we opened last night. Care to help me finish it?”

“Of course,” Guy said. William nodded to one of the servants, who disappeared into the shadows. Guy followed William up the stairs and to his room, where a small fire had been laid. A few chairs were grouped by the fire, and soon the two men were settled and sipping a delightful full-bodied red wine. Guy surveyed the room, enjoying the moment. The wealth and power this room represented, with its solid, ancient furnishings and fine appointments, were virtually promised to him, and him alone—all of his desires within reach, and a handsome husband, too.

Guy let himself indulge in that idea as they settled into the quiet, flicking his gaze discreetly at de Busli. The man was several years younger than he was, good-looking, and popular. Guy was not so naïve to think that William had responded to his initial efforts at friendship because of anything other than his position as the Sheriff's lieutenant and steward of the considerable Huntingdon lands, but he flattered himself to think that since then, he and William had begun to develop something of a more . . . personal rapport. Neither had acted on it, as of yet, but Guy wondered if that would change tonight, seeing as how everything had gone so well—not to mention the fact that they were already in William's bedroom.

“What does Sir Edward think?” William asked, after they had taken a few moments to appreciate the wine. “He's been rather quiet.”

“Sir Edward indulges Marian. I think he will let her make her own choice.”

William sat his cup down. “That's always the problem with heiresses. Too used to getting their own way.”

“She cares for him a great deal, so he may be able to influence her. I'm sure he sees what an advantage this would be for her.”

“Certainly the best she could get, anyway,” William said. Guy glanced over at him, trying to discern his meaning. Catching his look, William shrugged.

“That line has been declining for years. The two of them alone are not enough to keep up the prominence of the family, especially now that Sir Edward is no longer Sheriff. But we can set things right again,” he said with a smile, taking up his wine again. He took a sip, then added, “Provided she agree. Do you think she can be persuaded? She seems a little cold.”

Guy swirled the wine in his cup, slightly uncomfortable to be discussing Marian in such a fashion, though he had thought the same. “She's just shy, I think. I courted her almost two years before she agreed to marry just me.”

William's eyes widened, first in alarm, then amusement. Guy brushed off the unspoken implication.

“I'm sure the three of us can persuade her much sooner than that,” Guy said, deciding not to say anything about Marian's desire to wait until the king returned. He would honor that request as best as he was able, but surely if such a good match as this one were in danger she could be prevailed upon. She seemed reasonable as women went, if led too often by her heart. Though that might actually work to their advantage now. “She and Ismena seem to be getting along well,” he said significantly.

It was common knowledge that an alyaunce was made by the Day marriage—by the relationship between the women. William thought about Guy's words a moment, then nodded. Guy relaxed a fraction.

“You're probably right. And we all know how women are before they've known a man. She probably hasn't even been with a woman, has she?”

Guy shifted uncomfortably. “I don't think so.”

“I should have told Ismena to set that straight,” William said with a chuckle. “She's got wonderful hands.” He hid his smile in his wine cup, and after he drank his expression was rather more thoughtful. “I suppose,” he said carefully, “that it will be awhile before we see each other again.” He lifted his gaze, now dark and intense, and Guy felt the sudden warmth of arousal spread through him.

He cast about for an encouraging response; it was one thing to seduce servant girls, quite another to respond to the advances of a nobleman who, as probable-but-not-yet betrothed, hovered somewhere between his social better and his equal. “My duties will keep me in Nottingham for quite some time,” Guy agreed.

“It will be difficult for me to get away from the manor this time of year,” William replied, setting his cup down and leaning forward. “So I think we should enjoy the time we have together.”

Guy felt a swoop of expectation in his stomach. He placed his wine carefully on the table. Saints, William was gorgeous, and when he looked at Guy like that it was almost enough to make him forget that the man was wealthier, more respected, more experienced— “I think that is an excellent idea,” he replied.

A slow smile spread over William's face as he reached forward to slide a hand up Guy's thigh. “I've been told that I also have good hands,” he said lowly, just before he pressed his lips to Guy's.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I totally miscounted the number of chapters when I put up my first posts. I've fixed that, hence the different numbers this time around. My apologies for the long delay; RL was kicking me in the head for awhile. Chapter Four should be up much more quickly. Many thanks to my beta, Lady Kate, for her thoughtful comments on this chapter!
> 
> Nitty gritty details: My geography for this chapter is based on the [shire map](http://i840.photobucket.com/albums/zz326/swff_mods/shiremap.jpg) used by [For Nottingham](http://for_nottingham.livejournal.com/). Also, I'm playing with the canonical timeline in this and the next chapter a little bit, but only to make the days not quite so ridiculously full : )

ISABELLA

After they returned from the Bamber estate, life for Isabella quickly settled back into its normal routine: tiptoeing around Geoffrey, humouring Mahaut, embroidery, teaching the children, keeping house and . . . whatever it was with Edward. Once he had satisfied himself that Isabella was properly chastened, Edward became solicitous towards her once again. She hid her resentment with long practice, holding her tongue, doing as she was asked, and responding to his desires. Her new knowledge was a talisman she held closely. She did not know exactly what she would do with it, or when, but for now, the fact that she had it was enough.

The invitation to a tournament to celebrate Lord Talbott's birthday was a welcome diversion from it all. The weather was unseasonably warm, summer's last burst of effort before giving way to autumn. It would have been delightful, save for the refusal of the wind to muster so much as a breeze and the resulting heavy scent of sweat and horses that hung over the tournament ground. Isabella and Mahaut sat in the covered stands with the other women, who in the interim between bouts made only half-hearted conversation as they fanned themselves, most of them clearly waiting for the day to cool and the wine to flow. The men were on the whole much more animated; those who were not riding discussed horses and armor and likely outcomes of the bouts that were yet to come. 

There was a burst of activity on the list field and then the combatants of the next bout were announced. Mahaut straightened as Geoffrey's name was called, surveying the field with a hand above her eyes to shade herself from the sun. Isabella looked in the direction that she pointed, to the sidelines where Edward and the squires were doing a last check of Geoffrey's armour and tack. Geoffrey's skill was moderate; he had won a few tournaments—most of them ten or more years ago—but still usually ended up among the final four or eight. Isabella wanted him to do well today, if only so that he would not be in a foul temper later. Mahaut began to chatter about Geoffrey's opponent but Isabella listened with only half an ear, lifting her veil in an attempt to get some air around her neck and using it as an excuse to avoid meeting her wife's eyes. She doubted that Mahaut would notice.

After a few moments for final adjustments and ceremony, the men took their positions at either end of the list. With the prospect of actual action, the crowd seemed to perk up a bit as the men set their spurs to their horses, their helms shining over-bright in the afternoon sunlight. Geoffrey held his lance steady and true as he galloped forward, looking altogether more impressive than his opponent, whose own lance dipped low. Yet at the last minute the man jerked it up, knocking Geoffrey's lance out of the way as it screeched up over his chest plate to catch the edge of his neck-guard, where it snapped with a loud crack.

Geoffrey tumbled back off his horse as his opponent rode past, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Mahaut sought Isabella's hand blindly, holding it with an iron grip. Isabella endured it unconcerned; men were frequently knocked off their horses during a joust. But Geoffrey made no move to get up. With the horses clear, men began to dash onto the field, crowding around Geoffrey and obscuring him from view. Mahaut stood, trying to see what was happening and pulling Isabella along with her. The crowd parted to let Edward in, and Isabella caught a glimpse of her Evening husband, his helm removed, his face and neck dark with blood.

Mahaut screamed. She clasped her hands over her mouth as if to stop herself, then dashed unsteadily down the stands and onto the field. 

Isabella did not feel anything but shock. She did not feel fear, she did not feel joy or sorrow, or pity for Mahaut and Edward, who genuinely cared for Geoffrey. It didn't feel like she was there at all, save as a disembodied observer. She knew she should probably follow Mahaut, but all she could do was watch as the crowd swallowed her, too.

She was alone, Isabella noted with detachment, no one watching over her or seeking her attention. She could leave now and no one would notice. That thought jolted her back to herself. What kind of person was she, to think of leaving her spouses in such a state? 

_A person who has had enough._

She owed them nothing. The stands and the tournament grounds were chaotic and confused; all attention was on Geoffrey. They had travelled halfway to Nottingham to attend the tournament. What better opportunity would there be?

Before she could change her mind or feel ashamed at her lack of feeling, Isabella took a few halting steps down the stands. The next were more confident, and though her knees still trembled, her resolve held. Isabella slipped through the crowd, quietly found her horse, and rode off into the unknown.

ROBIN

Robin did not want to think about how close he'd been to losing Marian, not when he had just found a way to save her. He thanked God silently as they ran through the darkening forest that he'd realized she'd gone to Locksley as the Nightwatchman, and that they had gotten there in time. He'd had a moment of terror when a fight nearly broke out between Marian and Guy—he couldn't blame her for lashing out at Guy after he'd crowed about taking her to the marriage bed, but his heart had been in his throat as Gisborne had caught himself, barely, by the stair rail and viciously struck out at her. Marian had countered with a dagger Robin didn't know she'd had, slashing through Guy's leathers and buying them enough time to slip out the door. But she was safe and, what's more, she wouldn't have to go through with the betrothal that had been set once the news of Richard's arrival was announced.

Her face, when he told her, lit up beautifully. He could not help but smile back.

“Come on, then,” he said affectionately. “Let's get to the cave before the rain starts.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, giving urgency to his words, and he took off towards the cave. After a moment he stopped, realizing that he did not hear Marian behind him. He looked back, finding her in the same spot where he had left her. Robin doubled back to her, asking, “Is something wrong?”

“Robin,” she began slowly. “What will happen?”

“When the king arrives?” he asked, suddenly wary.

She nodded.

“I will make my statement to the king. Then there will be a trial. Gisborne will probably be hanged.” Or worse, which was likely, as the crime was treason. He did not think there was need to mention that, though.

Marian looked away, unhappiness clear on her face even in the low light.

“Marian, why does this upset you?” Robin asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice. He did not want to retread their argument from earlier, not when everything had been going so well. 

Her gaze snapped back to him; he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Usually, he felt he understood her well, but every now and then she would become completely inscrutable. It had happened much more frequently since he'd returned from the Holy Land.

“You know how I feel about hanging,” she said quietly.

Robin sighed. “He tried to kill the king! He tried to kill you.”

“That makes no difference.”

“That makes every difference!” Robin took a step away, trying to calm his mounting anger. It was bad enough that Gisborne had tried to kill Richard, worse still that his own men did not believe him and Marian persisted in defending him.

Marian crossed her arms. “There must be another way.”

“There is no other way.” That was the law of the land. Trying to kill the king was trying to kill England. And Gisborne had done it according to no principle save his own ambition. No one could stoop lower. 

“I do not believe that,” she said.

Robin shook his head in frustration. Of all the things that had to come between them, why did it have to be Gisborne? “You do have feelings for him,” he said, suspicion hardening into conviction.

Marian looked at him, startled. “He said so himself,” Robin continued. “That you were stirred by him.”

Marian's brows lowered in annoyance. “Grow up,” she snapped. “I'm going home. If I'm not there when my father gets back, he'll be worried.”

“Marian—”

“Good night, Robin. Thank you for your help.” 

Robin gritted his teeth, let out a breath. He thought about calling after her. But that would make no difference. Neither would change their mind tonight. And so he let her go, off into the gathering darkness alone.

MARIAN

Marian struck off in no particular direction. She knew that the River Leen and the wide road to Mansfield, which split the forest between Locksley and Knighton, lay close by, so she did not fear getting lost, despite the darkness.

She moved as quickly as she could, pushing herself hard to take the edge off of her anger. Why did she and Robin always manage to find something to argue about? And why was it so often Sir Guy? 

Despite her desire for herself and Robin to return to their former closeness, she would not alter her convictions, even if, as Robin claimed, Guy had committed treason. Was not human life more important than an abstract and changeable notion? For despite Robin's dislike of the man, Sir Guy was a human being; she'd seen glimpses in him of something more than a violent sheriff's lackey, something that, with encouragement, could develop into a principled and upright man.

Not that she wanted to be the one to do the encouraging, despite what Robin thought. She was glad to be free from her promise and grateful for Robin's help. She just wished that her means of escape wasn't something that would demand the taking of a human life.

As Marian's irritation slowly ebbed, the clouds and spitting rain moved away, clearing the sky so the moon could shine, low in the sky and near full. She ought to be getting back to Knighton. She turned east, into the path of the moon, and found her way to the road. 

She paused at the edge of the forest, peering down the road. It was curiously silent, she realized; she could no longer hear the calls of night birds that had sounded just moments before. There was a quiet rumble in the distance, one she quickly recognized as the sound of hooves. 

Marian slipped back into the shadows, waiting as a riderless horse cantered down the road. A moment later a man on horseback followed, gaining ground. Marian waited while they disappeared in the distance. Yet before she moved, she heard a quiet rustling not far behind her. She turned, looking for its source, and could just make out a small figure making its way through the brush—a woman most likely, hampered by long skirts. Marian watched, growing concerned as she noticed the second figure that followed.

The woman stopped at the edge of a clearing, looking around, and in that moment the other person pushed through the foliage and hurtled toward her. The woman tried to run, but her clothing caught on a fallen log and she lost precious time trying to tear herself free. “Please,” she begged, pulling at her skirt. “Let me go. You know what he will do to me.”

The man was upon her, and her efforts became half-hearted. She was clearly resigning herself.

“I have my orders, my lady. It will be easier for everyone if you come along without a fuss.”

Her shoulders drooped, and after a moment she held out her hands. Marian pushed her mask back into place. The woman was clearly going against her will, and no woman without a very good reason would be running alone through a forest at night. She had to help.

Marian slipped through the shadows as the man began to loop rope around the woman's wrists. The woman stood docilely for a few moments, then suddenly twisted and dropped an elbow into the man's stomach. As he doubled over, she pulled his sword from his scabbard and backed away, trying to keep the heavy weapon pointed at him as she shook the rope off.

“I will not go back to them,” she snarled. 

Marian's attention was torn by the sound of yet another person moving through the forest towards them. She struck off into the underbrush, moving as quietly as she could through the dry twigs and dead leaves of the forest floor until she found him. He wore a dark surcoat with a sigil that looked very much like the one the other man wore.

A cry came from the clearing. The man drew his sword and broke into a run, Marian following close behind. She reached him when he was only steps away from the woman and her pursuer and, before either man realized what was happening, Marian heaved off and struck him in the temple with the side of her fist. He fell to the ground in a heap and Marian launched herself over his prone form. The other man had a tight grip on the woman's arm, both of them scrabbling for the sword, which was now on the forest floor.

“Who the hell are you?” the other man cried, looking up. Marian drew her dagger, its blade glinting in the moonlight, and pointed it towards him menacingly. In the split second he was distracted, the woman launched herself toward the sword and grabbed its hilt. The man reached forward to get a hold on her again but Marian shoved him to the ground with a boot and kept him there. The woman scrambled to her feet, the sword extended.

“Who are you?” she asked. 

Marian only gestured to the man beneath her foot. _What do you want done with him?_

The woman regarded her a moment. “He will follow me as soon as you let him go.”

It seemed likely. Marian didn't like engaging in violence when it wasn't for self-defense, but it was clear that he posed a risk to the woman. She bent down, hauled him up by his cloak, and knocked him out with a punch.

“Thank you,” the woman said, when Marian had straightened and turned toward her. It was the first time Marian had gotten a good look at the woman. She was clearly noble, as the elegance of her gown attested, and she had also clearly been through a lot. Her hair was loose and tangled, her dress torn and the hem dirty. She was good-looking as well, with a fiercely determined expression which belied the delicacy of her features. Marian did not doubt that she knew how to use the sword she held. Instead of speaking, and revealing her gender, Marian took a page out of Robin's book, and bowed.

The woman lowered her sword slowly, her eyes never leaving Marian. “I don't suppose you know which direction Locksley village is?”

Marian frowned behind her mask, curious. The woman was almost certainly looking for Robin or Guy. Marian pointed the direction that the woman would need to take. She had misgivings, though—it would be quite a long walk, and Robin's band weren't the only outlaws in the forest. Though the woman was armed, it didn't feel right to send her on her way alone. It would be dangerous for Marian to go near Locksley again tonight, dressed as she was, though it was likely Guy's guards had stopped looking for her once it had hit full dark. She could be careful.

She started for the road, gesturing for the woman to follow. 

The woman hurried after her, falling into step when they reached the road. “Why are you helping me?”

Marian only smiled. She could feel the woman's discerning gaze on her, and bore it silently. Her mask and hood were in place; her leather doublet should be enough to disguise her gender.

After a moment, the woman spoke again. “Do you not speak? Forgive me.”

Marian shook her head. _It is nothing._

“You saved my life. Thank you. I was not expecting such kindness from a stranger.” The woman's expression slowly warmed into a tentative smile. “I am Isabella.”

Marian found herself smiling back.

*

Marian led Isabella until Locksley was visible through the trees. All of its windows still blazed with light, and no doubt there was a man in the watchtower Guy had had built. She stopped and gestured toward the manor house. Isabella looked at it a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she turned to Marian. “Thank you for your help. I wish I could give you something more than words to show my gratitude.”

Marian shook her head.

Isabella flashed a grateful smile, then then started toward the village. A twig snapped underfoot, startlingly loud in the quiet of the night. Marian realized with horror that the sound had not come from Isabella. It was behind her. She and Isabella turned at the same moment, only to see figures sliding out of the darkness, flashes of yellow at the arms revealing their identity.

Marian drew her dagger and Isabella, she noted with appreciation, hefted her stolen sword.

Marian edged away, preparing to dart off into the forest. A dog barked behind her, quickly joined by others, and she could hear shouts coming from the village. She shot a quick glance at Isabella. They had to go now. Marian launched herself to the right, intending to follow the edge of the forest until she had lost the men and could retreat deeper into the forest. She hoped Isabella was close behind.

A great weight smashed into her, throwing her to the ground and knocking her dagger from her hand. It was a hunting hound, nearly as large as she was, and it stood with its front paws on her chest. Marian couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to, for the fall had knocked the wind from her lungs. She gasped, trying to fight off panic, knowing that her inability to breathe was only temporary. She felt around for her dagger, fingers finding nothing amongst the dead leaves. She had to get away, to defend herself, but her limbs didn't want to cooperate.

And then a face appeared in her field of vision, half covered with a helmet topped with a plume of black and yellow feathers.

GUY

Guy sat by the fire, nursing his wounds and a pitcher of wine while he waited for any word from his men. He'd told them not to return until they had something useful to tell him. He wanted that news to be that they had caught the Nightwatchman, but he wasn't really expecting it. Robbing his house was the final outrage, and it turned what had been a minor annoyance—at least in comparison to his hatred of Hood—into a desire to punish, shame, destroy. The men who'd been on watch had already received the first wave of his temper..

He was not happy about such a setback, not when the official betrothal ceremony was set for Saturday. The Nightwatchman had taken by no means all of his money, but a substantial sum nonetheless. At least none of his injuries would show.

The door burst open, startling him from his brooding, and Guy opened his mouth to scold the new captain of his guard. The man did not seem to notice, crying excitedly, “Sir Guy, the Nightwatchman! We've caught him!”

Guy's body thrummed suddenly with excitement, but he remained still. “Are you sure?”

The man hesitated, then nodded. “Three men have him pinned to the ground, just at the edge of the forest. There's a woman with him.”

Guy stood, ignoring the protests of his aching muscles. A hand motion brought his squire forward with his belt and sword. It troubled him that the Nightwatchman was so close. Any intelligent person would put as much distance as possible between themselves and the person they'd just robbed. Guy refused to entertain the idea that one of his own serfs was the culprit. He didn't trust his peasants a whit, but neither did he give them enough credit to do what the Nightwatchman had done. Perhaps the man had been hurt more than Guy had realized and hadn't been able to get any further. That would be a pleasing solution, provided the Nightwatchman wasn't hurt too badly. Guy wanted him to last a long time.

He strode out into the night. He wondered if the woman were pretty, and if she would be suitably grateful for her rescue. On the far side of the village, Guy could see a group of guards and dogs clustered together just outside the forest where the brush grew thick and tangled, the scene lit by torches. Several of them struggled with a figure on the ground, while two more restrained a woman between them. The shine of her dress in the firelight suggested her to be a lady.

He forced himself to walk, not run, through every moment he feared the Nightwatchman somehow, impossibly, managing to get away as he always did. As he approached the group, the captive's struggles suddenly intensified. Guy watched with horror as the man managed to roll over and kick out, breaking the hold of two men. He drew his sword and broke into a run, no longer worried about his pride.

“Guy, please!” a voice called, in French. “Wait!” 

His head whipped toward the woman, who had spoken to him with his sister's voice.

In his moment of hesitation, the Nightwatchman had shaken the hold of the third man. “Get him!” Guy yelled, furious that he had been distracted. The closest guard kicked out, getting the Nightwatchman in the back of the knee. His legs buckled. Another man dashed up from behind and knocked him squarely on his temple. The Nightwatchman swayed a moment before pitching forward onto the ground.

Finally, Guy thought with savage pleasure. “You'd better not have killed him,” he growled, not particularly perturbed. After being satisfied that the Nightwatchman wasn't going to suddenly spring up, he turned to the woman. It was Isabella. Even in the darkness, with all the years that had passed, he could tell. “Release her,” he said to the guards who held her. One of them was developing a rather nasty black eye. He leaned in. “You have some explaining to do.” Isabella met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Good work,” Guy said, raising his voice so all of his men could hear. “I'll send a cask of wine to the barracks.” This was met with grins and a few cheers. If they'd recovered his money, he might even have doubled their wages for the week. He turned his gaze to the prone form of the Nightwatchman. “Put him in the dairy shed,” Guy said. He turned toward the house, and gestured for Isabella to come along.

“Thank God I've found you,” she said, continuing in the French they had spoken together as children.

“Why are you here, Isabella? Where are your husbands?”

“I came to seek your help.”

Guy eyed her sidelong. That sounded like a matter best discussed in the privacy of the house, even if most of the guards wouldn't understand them. “What were you doing with the Nightwatchman?”

“The Nightwatchman?”

“It's what he calls himself.” A niggle of guilt prompted him to ask, “Did he hurt you, or steal from you?”

Isabella shook her head. “He saved me.”

Guy held a hand up to halt her. It already looked ill enough that she had been caught with him. He didn't want to deal with it in front of his men, and resented that his capture of the Nightwatchman had been sullied. “We'll discuss it at the house. I'll deal with him. You go ahead. Tell Thornton who you are, he'll see to anything you need.”

She started at his words, and it took him a moment to remember that her Evening husband's name was Thornton as well. “The butler. He hasn't retired yet.”

Isabella nodded, then started in the direction of the house, though not without a glance back at the limp form of the Nightwatchman, being carried between a few of his guards.

Guy followed his men to the dairy shed. Once they deposited the Nightwatchman on the dirty straw Guy took a torch and waved them off. He was dying to finally find out who the rogue was. The man's mask was still on, if slightly askew, but his kerchief had been pushed down around his neck. This was the first time he'd gotten a good look at the man, and as he did so, his breath stopped. Those full lips, the top sweetly bowed, were startlingly familiar. It had to be a coincidence. Yet Guy's hand trembled as he reached out to remove the mask. The hood had been pinned in place over it, and he fumbled with the pins before he could push the mask back over the man's—woman's—face.

Her lip was split and swollen and there was a nasty welt at her temple, but it was, absolutely and without a doubt, Marian. Guy's hand fell.

The first woman he had loved, he was going to have to kill.

But right now it was too much. He rose unsteadily to his feet and backed out of the shed, drawing the bolt closed. “No one is to go in there without my permission,” he said to the captain of his guard, who had taken up a post in front of the shed. “This door is to be guarded at all times.” Without waiting for a reply, Guy turned on his heel and stalked back to the manor house, mind whirring.

He was momentarily startled to see a woman sitting by the fire. She turned at his entrance, the sight of her familiar-but-not face reminding him that Isabella was here. Dealing with her was the last thing he wanted right now. He poured himself a cup of the wine that had been set out on the table and drained it, savoring the bitter tannins that spread across his tongue. Then he poured another. 

“Who is the Nightwatchman?” Isabella asked.

Guy pinched the bridge of his nose, where a headache was beginning to settle. “A thief and a rogue who disturbs the peace,” he replied in clipped tones. Marian. How could they be one and the same?

“I was attacked in the forest. The Nightwatchman saved me.”

Guy dropped into the chair opposite Isabella and looked at her evenly. “Tonight, he robbed my house and did this.” He turned up his cuff to reveal the bandage on his arm. Blood was beginning to soak through. He was speaking to himself as much as to Isabella, trying to comprehend the fact that the woman who had agreed to marry him was someone he didn't know at all—not only was she a criminal, she had attacked _him_.

He drew his mind back to his sister with effort. “What were you even doing there?”

Isabella set her cup down carefully. He could not read her expression. “I came to ask for your protection.”

Guy surveyed her a moment before responding. Her dress was torn and her hair a mess. There were circles under her eyes and coiled tension in her posture; she sat delicately on her seat like a bird wary of predators. “That is what your husbands are for.”

“Please, Guy,” she said. “Do not make me go back to them. You do not know what they are like.”

“Isabella, you made a vow,” he replied sharply. He was in little mood to countenance betrayal right now.

“I was barely more than a child when you gave me to them,” she said, words thick with resentment.

“And it is a decision I do not regret,” Guy snapped.

“Do you not even feel some sort of duty to me, your own sister?” Her voice was hard but her eyes full of feeling; she seemed brittle somehow, both hard and fragile. He was far too tired to investigate further, to deal with these seeming contradictions.

“Your duty is to your spouses.” 

Isabella's jaw was set. It appeared she still possessed the stubbornness that had plagued him so when she was young. Changing his tack, Guy said more gently, “You hurt three people with your actions. Do you not at least think of your wife?” he asked, trying to appeal to the tender-hearted sentiment that bound a woman to her wife.

“She is hardly different from Edward or Geoffrey.”

Guy sighed. This was going to take a great deal of energy, energy he didn't have. Easier to let it go for now. Isabella was his only family, after all, and perhaps he should be glad that she had come to him and not to a lover, and shame them even more. “You may stay,” he said finally. “For now.”

“Thank you,” Isabella said quietly.

There was a long, awkward pause. Despite his weariness, Guy's thoughts flitted from topic to topic. He wanted to go to Marian, to ask her _why?_ but there was no telling how long it would be before she woke. He wrestled briefly with the thought of keeping an injured woman locked up alone outdoors, but the indignation at her betrayal quickly quashed those feelings. No, she could stay there. He deserved some fucking rest, and she could wait on his pleasure.

Hannah entered then and curtsied, telling Isabella that her bath was ready. Guy stayed downstairs after she left, finishing his wine as he watched the fire slowly die, the inertia of fatigue keeping him in the hall until he grew cold.


	5. Chapter Four

GUY

Guy shouldered the door of the shed open, blocking the entrance with his body so the guard behind him couldn't see inside. Marian was a darker smudge against the darkness; she stirred as he tossed a loaf of bread onto the ground.

“Guy,” she said, blinking blearily and pushing herself up onto one arm.

“Do not speak to me.” He set the bucket of water in his other hand down carelessly, some of the water splashing out onto his boot. He turned to leave; he felt no better equipped to deal with her than he had the night before. “We will talk when I get back tonight.”

He almost nodded off several times during the ride to Nottingham. It had been a long, restless night, and between the turmoil of his thoughts and vivid dreams, he couldn't tell how much he'd actually slept. When they reached the castle, Guy handed off his horse to one of the stable boys and told a servant to announce him to the Sheriff. “I have news,” he said grimly.

Guy pulled off his riding gloves as he headed toward the keep. After a moment he noticed footsteps trailing his. “Sir Guy!” a man called behind him. “Sir Guy, I must speak to you!”

“Now is not a good time,” he replied, continuing on his way.

“It's about your illness last winter, Sir Guy,” the man said more firmly. Guy stopped then and turned. It was Pitts, the physician who had been paid very generously to provide cover for his trip to the Holy Land. If he had come for more money, he had come at the wrong time.

“May we speak somewhere private?”

“Follow me.” Guy led him around the keep, to a corner of the courtyard that was used mostly for storage as it was out-of-the-way, but close to the river gate, where heavy things could be easily transported. It was littered with boxes and barrels, spare pieces of wood and bits of broken ceramic, evidently from men who had come to drink ale and shirk off their duties. It was chilly, shaded by one of the castle towers, but the tower also served to hide them from the rest of the courtyard.

“Well?” Guy asked, crossing his arms and leaning against one of the barrels.

“It's Robin Hood.”

 _Goddammit._ Guy raised an eyebrow.

“He knows. I didn't tell him. Well, much. He suspected most of it already—”

“And you told him the rest?”

Pitts nodded. “He threatened me, he and his men. I thought you said he did not like violence.”

Guy ignored this. “Did he say his intentions?”

“He made me promise to testify about your absence.” He paused. “And . . . he said you tried to kill the King.”

Guy straightened, meeting the physician's uncertain gaze evenly. “And you have come here for protection, or more money to persuade you not to testify against me.”

Pitts's eyes slid away as Guy walked toward him. He continued softly, “So, you and I and the Sheriff are the only ones who know what happened. And now Hood. But if there are no witnesses, no one will believe him.” Guy grabbed Pitts's arm with one hand and shoved his curved dagger up into the man's torso with the other. “Robin Hood doesn't kill, you fool,” he hissed as Pitts sank to the ground, mouth open in a soundless cry. “But I do.” There was no reason for him to change his ways now. He had lost Marian, and all hope of redemption from the things he had done to get where he was.

Guy straightened. Blood was already soaking through the physician's clothing; he didn't want a tell-tale stain left behind. He unlocked the river gate and pulled it open with a squeal of rusting hinges. By the time he returned to Pitts, the man was pale, his breathing labored. There was no way he could tell his secrets in this state. Guy dragged him down the short incline to the water's edge and shoved him in with his foot, watching until the current pushed him out of sight.

*

“You said you had news for me?”

Guy turned away from the Sheriff to shut the door behind him. Now that the moment was upon him to tell the events of the night before, he found himself hesitating. The Sheriff would crow, he knew, would laugh in his face at how he had known, but Guy hadn't listened. _Lepers_ , he would say, not knowing how much that wounded Guy.

And he would order her hanged.

Guy felt his resolve give way. He wanted to punish her, for the hurt and humiliation she'd caused him, but even he balked at the execution of a noble woman. Of Marian. No, better to deal with it himself, quietly.

“Go on then, Gisborne,” the Sheriff said, impatience clear in his voice.

“My sister is in town.”

Vaizey looked up from an examination of his cuticles. “I'd forgotten you had a sister. Here for the betrothal, eh?” He snickered, then his grin quickly became sour. “Why are you wasting my time with this?” he snapped. “We still have preparations to make for tomorrow.”

Guy dropped his chin, relieved. “I'm sorry, my lord.”

ISABELLA

Guy was gone by the time Isabella came downstairs. Her linens had been washed in the evening and dried by the fire overnight, and she'd tidied her gown as much as possible. It would need a thorough washing as soon as she could get another dress. She had a little bread and beer in the main room of the manor house, examining with curiosity the home her brother had gotten for himself. Its size and luxury suggested wealth and power, just as she'd hoped, as did the crest of their Evening father sitting atop the mantel.

When she asked, the butler informed her that Guy had gone to Nottingham, as he did most days, and would not return until close to sunset.

“And the Nightwatchman?”

“Sir Guy has instructed that no one should speak to him or enter the dairy shed.”

So he was still here. “Thank you, Thornton,” she said, and he retreated with the remains of her breakfast.

Isabella immediately went to find the shed. It wasn't difficult; it was the only outbuilding with a guard on it. The farmyard was relatively quiet at this time of the morning, with most of the daily chores having already been completed and the farmhands out in the fields working at the harvest. The serving girl was hanging up laundry with her back to Isabella, and the small group that was decorating the churchyard with garlands paid her no heed.

Isabella set her expression and strode across the yard towards the guard at the door of the shed.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said as she approached.

“I would like to see the prisoner.”

“I'm sorry my lady, but Sir Guy said no one could.”

“Even his own sister?”

The guard shuffled nervously. “I don't—”

“What's your name?” Isabella interrupted.

“Ben, m'lady.”

Isabella laid a hand on his arm. “Ben, I was captured by the Nightwatchman yesterday. He dragged me through the forest and took everything I had. If you and the others hadn't captured him, I don't know what I would have done. I want to go in there and tell him that he messed with the wrong family. I want to laugh in his face.” Isabella softened her haughty expression to an encouraging smile. “I'm sure you can understand.” 

“Well, er,” the guard stammered, looking down at her hand.

“Just a few moments. I'll be quick, and I won't say a word to anyone about you doing me this little favor.”

The guard looked around. Finally, he said, “If you can be quick.”

“I promise,” Isabella said, smiling more broadly as he stepped out of the way.

She slid the bolt to the side and pushed the door in. She opened it only a fraction before slipping inside.

The dairy shed was small and dark, lit only by lines of light that shone between the wall planks and under the door. It also smelled strongly of goat. A dark shape nestled in a pile of straw shifted and sat up as the door creaked closed.

“Nightwatchman?” Isabella whispered, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the low light. “I wanted to thank you for helping me yesterday. I don't know why you put yourself in danger to help someone you didn't know, but . . . thank you. If there's anything I can do to repay you, please let me know.”

After a moment of silence, the Nightwatchman responded in a very unexpected voice. “I don't suppose you could help me escape, could you?” 

“You're a woman!” Isabella cried, nearly forgetting to whisper. She crossed the shed in a few short steps and crouched so as to try and make out the woman's features. She was tired and dirty, but even in the low light Isabella could tell that she was beautiful—and that she had the fair skin of a noblewoman. “Is that why he was so upset?”

“I imagine he was upset because we are—were, I suppose—betrothed.”

Another revelation. One that put Guy's reaction to her arrival into perspective. Before Isabella could respond, the other woman spoke again. “He did not say who I was?”

Isabella shook her head, then realised her gesture might not be visible in the semi-darkness. “No. I don't think he's told anyone.”

“Did he say what he was going to do?” the woman asked after a moment, in a quieter voice.

“He told me very little, I'm afraid.” Their conversation the night before had been more about her than him, and now Isabella could see why. “What is your name?”

“Marian. Marian of Knighton. Isabella, I was not trying to harm Sir Guy. I was only taking wealth that would have been mine to give to the poor. But I fear that he will not listen to me.”

Isabella sat back on her heels. “If you are asking me to help you escape, I cannot do that. I am sorry. My safety depends on Guy's good will. I will speak on your behalf, though. I promise.” She genuinely regretted that she could not do more.

There was a rap at the door. 

Isabella stood. “I must go.”

“Isabella—”

She stopped, hoping that Marian would not ask her again. She _couldn't._

“How do you know Guy?”

“He's my brother,” she said, not able to keep the bitterness from her voice.

GUY

The house felt different when he returned, tired, with a headache. There were flowers on the mantelpiece and sweet herbs among the rushes. A flagon of wine and a cup stood on the table. It was nice, but he felt a stab of bitterness that it was at his sister's hand, not that of a wife who loved and honored him as she should. Guy poured himself a generous cup of wine and sat, giving into his fatigue.

Isabella entered from the kitchen bearing a basket of sliced bread and a pot of butter. The maid and the cook followed her, each with table settings and dishes of food.

“I thought I heard you come in,” Isabella said. “We're having pork and apples.”

Guy grunted and took a swig of his wine. Isabella was another problem he had to figure out how to deal with. She belonged with her alyaunce, according to the laws of both God and man, and he could be held legally accountable for sheltering a runaway woman. Her presence here resurrected in him a niggling guilt at leaving her behind after her marriage, so long ago, when she was still so young and her spouses little more than strangers. He resented it, especially on top of everything else.

“You look tired.”

He ventured a glance at Isabella but her expression showed nothing but polite unconcern. She sat.

“How is your arm?”

Guy unbuttoned his cuff and held out his arm. Isabella began to unwrap the bandage with deft hands. The cut wasn't bleeding anymore, but it was warm and pink around the edges, which wasn't a good sign. As she examined the wound, he took a moment to look at her, up close and in the better light of day. There were hints of the girl he remembered in the color of her eyes, the curl of her hair, but her girlish softness had fallen away. He could see their father in the shape of her jaw; their mother in her brow, though Ghislaine's brown eyes had been much warmer than Isabella's cool blue. But otherwise she was more different that he had imagined she would be, both in mannerism and expression. After a moment, he asked, “Are you good at healing?” 

“Not as good as Maman was. I'm still learning.”

Isabella pressed a curious finger on the wound and Guy hissed. 

“It ought to be stitched. Will you let me?”

Guy nodded. He didn't think it was really necessary, but if she wanted to be helpful, it only seemed fair. He was in a mood to be fussed over.

Guy sipped his wine while Isabella gathered honey, salve, clean bandages, and other things she would need, and the servants continued setting out the food. Tension was slowly falling away from him as his needs were looked after. He still had to decide what to do about Marian, but he was starting to feel better than he had all day.

“I was surprised that you didn't take the Nightwatchman to Nottingham,” Isabella said, once she had settled down to work on his arm. Guy winced at the sting of the wine she used to clean the wound.

“I had more important matters to attend to.”

“Of course. I heard about the King.” Guy grimaced; he was still stung that Vaizey hadn't seen fit to tell him that the King was not actually the King until today.

After a moment, Isabella asked, “Will he hang?”

“His crimes warrant it,” Guy said, not looking at her.

“Ah,” was all she said in reply. 

Guy ventured a glance at her; her brow was furrowed, though whether in concentration or unhappiness he could not tell. “Does that displease you?”

Isabella's eyes darted to his, indicating he had hit upon the truth. “Despite his crimes, he did save me from those ruffians.”

“He kept you from the men who would take you to your lawful spouses,” Guy snapped, annoyed that their conversation was quickly undoing the peacefulness her ministrations had begun to impart.

“Those men were brutes. Who knows what they would have been capable of?” She shuddered.

Silently, Guy agreed with her. “Why didn't Edward and Geoffrey come get you themselves?” 

There was a long pause while Isabella knotted the silk thread and made her first stitch. Guy hissed, but was not so distracted that the pause didn't seem suspiciously long. “Because they do not care what happens to me. I am little more than a possession to them.” She raised her eyes to his, offering that same challenging gaze he'd seen the night before. 

Guy doubted her dramatic words. She'd always been imaginative and emotional as a child, and it seemed as if that hadn't changed. But Isabella being here was not the biggest of his worries at the moment, and so he let it slide. He could deal with her once he'd decided what to do about Marian and the betrothal, and after they'd seen Vaizey's plan to root out traitors to completion. Plus, she had a needle in his flesh right now.

“What will the Nightwatchman's punishment be, if he is not to hang?”

Guy was glad for the change of subject, less so that Isabella seemed to understand things he had not said. Another thing he had forgotten about her; she was too astute by far. But perhaps he could put her intelligence to good use.

“What punishment do you think fitting, if you think he does not deserve to die?” 

“Surely a public flogging would set an example and deter future behavior?”

Guy snorted. It was like a woman to think flogging a sufficient punishment for housebreaking and the theft of several pounds of silver. And anyway, it was out of the question.

“In the forest, then.”

Guy looked up at his sister. 

“With no one around to watch, he will suspect the worst, and fear you more. And he will be more grateful if you choose to show mercy.”

He considered this as Isabella tied off the thread. Some men beat their wives, and there was a small, vicious part of him that was angry enough to consider it. But largely he found the idea repugnant. No, better to strike at her father, not her. To let him walk into Vaizey's plan and reveal himself to be the traitor that Guy was certain that he was, and to take the punishment he deserved. The forest could instead serve as a cover for letting Marian go without his men knowing.

“That is a good idea,” he said. Isabella's expression eased. Women were so soft-hearted.

*

Their dinner was interrupted by the sudden arrival of William de Busli. He burst through the door without a glance at Thornton, hair wild from his ride and eyes blazing. “Gisborne, what is this?” he asked, brandishing the message that Guy had scrawled and sent off that morning. He caught sight of Isabella. “Who is that?” 

Guy stood, his anger at being treated so in his own house overcoming his nervousness at what was to come. “This is my sister, Lady Isabella Thornton of the Evening. Isabella, meet Sir William de Busli of the Morning,” he said sharply. To her credit, Isabella stood and curtsied with practiced elegance. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir William,” she said in a low, demure voice, though her gaze was bright and curious.

William's expression softened somewhat. “My apologies, Lady Isabella. I have just received some distressing news from your brother and am rather out of sorts.” He glared at Guy.

“Leave us,” Guy said. Isabella bowed her head politely, then went upstairs.

“What the hell is this about, Gisborne?” William snapped once her footsteps had died away, though the edge had left his voice. He tossed the letter onto the table.

Guy crossed his arms. “Marian and I have had a disagreement.”

William raised an eyebrow. “A disagreement? You have cancelled our betrothal over _a disagreement_?”

Guy looked away. “It is irreconcilable.”

“Has she slept with another man?”

“What? Of course not.”

“Then what is so serious that you will embarrass myself and my family over?” His voice was taut with anger. Guy began to regret his hasty actions this morning, but not enough to not be offended.

“That is between Marian and myself.” 

William tossed his head in frustration. “No, Gisborne, it's not. There are four of us in this, not just the two of you. That's the whole point of an alyaunce.” Their gazes met evenly for a moment. William sighed and approached Guy. “Can you forgive me for being unwilling to give you up?” he said quietly, reaching up to run his hand along Guy's jaw.

Guy's eyes fluttered involuntarily as he remembered the visit to Tickhill; de Busli had been right about having good hands. “I'm not happy about it either,” he said huskily.

“Then resolve whatever this is with Marian. Or let me send Ismena down to her,” William replied, leaning close enough that Guy could feel the man's breath on his neck. This really wasn't helping his resolve.

“William—”

de Busli straightened suddenly. “I'll tell my fathers to halt preparations for the betrothal and wedding,” he said coolly, “but I will expect a better explanation if you remain set on your decision.” He reached past Guy to take the letter. “Though I strongly suggest that you change your mind.” William was several inches shorter than Guy, but as he stood there, angry, radiating power and privilege, he suddenly seemed much more imposing.

“I will see you at the next Council meeting,” he said, and walked out the door. 

Guy grabbed his wine goblet from dinner and took a long drink. Then, anger blossoming, he threw it against the wall.

MARIAN

Marian awoke with a start as the door to the shed was kicked in. She blinked in confusion; she had lost all track of time in the shed. She caught a glimpse of sky—a swathe of pink cloud, the bright evening star—and then the doorway was filled with Guy's silhouette. She scrambled upright, swaying as her head pounded. Indeed, it hadn't _stopped_ pounding since she'd awoken to find herself locked in a small, dark, space that smelled nauseatingly of goat.

The shed was suddenly flooded with light as Guy entered, a torch in hand which he set into a ring on the wall. Strangely, he held her mask in the other. “We are not to be disturbed,” Guy said to someone outside, and then the door closed behind him.

“Guy,” Marian began, her dizziness having calmed enough for her to speak.

He did not look at her. He tossed her mask on the ground and sat on a milking stool. Marian sat back down on the pile of dirty straw she'd been sleeping on, heart sinking.

“Why?” he said, his gaze finding her for the first time. His eyes were cold.

“What?”

“Why did you do it?”

“I—it was only to help those who needed it. The poor, the sick—”

“Helping Robin Hood and stealing from me—attacking me—was only to help the poor.” Guy thrust his hand forward; Marian could see the edge of a bandage under his cuff.

“I am sorry that I hurt you. But I was not helping Robin Hood. We share the goal of helping the poor but I do not agree with his methods.”

“Like thievery?”

“That was different.” Marian bit her lip. This was going sorely wrong, but it was hard to think clearly with a splitting headache and hunger gnawing in her belly.

Guy crossed his arms. “Do go on.”

“I wanted—I wanted to do one last thing before I married. It was all going to go to the poor.”

“And you thought you could not ask me, or that Sir William or I would not allow you to give alms once we were married?”

She dropped her gaze. It wasn't about that at all, but she could hardly tell him that. “Guy,” she began slowly, as an idea formed, “You are always saying that we should get to know each other better before we marry. Well,” she said, raising her eyes to his, “this is who I am. What I believe in.”

His expression seemed to soften for just a moment, or maybe it was a trick of the flickering light, for he responded with, “If you believe stealing from people to give away to others who can't take care of themselves is some sort of justice, then you are sorely misguided.” He stood, scooping up her mask before straightening.

“What will happen to me?”

“Put this on,” he snapped, thrusting the mask towards her.

“What?” she asked, turning the mask over in her hands. 

“Shall I do it for you?”

“No,” she said, and did as he had told her. “Guy, please, tell me what's going on.”

“We are going to the forest.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm going to let you go.”

Marian blinked at him in astonishment, and as she did, Guy grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him. When Marian realized what was happening, she tried to jerk away. Guy's grip was too tight. “This will be easier if you cooperate. Give me your other hand,” he commanded.

She weighed her options. She could fight back, and have a fair chance of getting past Guy, but she didn't know what awaited her outside the shed. And then what? Nowhere was safe anymore, now that her identity was known. He told her he was going to let her go; she would have to take her chances. She did not truly believe that he would harm her. Slowly, she extended her other arm. Guy grabbed it and pulled a length of twine from his belt, which he looped and tied tightly around her wrists. When he was finished, she tested the knots. They would hold.

“Pull up your kerchief,” he said, reaching to pull her hood over her head. Marian looked up at him, but even as close as they were, she could not read his intentions. Again, she obeyed him, and then he took her by the arm and pulled her out into the night.

“My lord,” said the two guards outside, standing to attention.

“You may go,” Guy said. “I'm going to deal with the Nightwatchman myself.”

“Don't we get to see the show?” one of the them asked.

“I'm afraid this one is personal,” he replied, with a frightening, wolfish grin. He gestured towards his bandaged arm and the men nodded in understanding.

Once they had reached the cover of the forest, Guy turned and wordlessly cut her bonds.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling down her kerchief. “I thought you were a great believer in justice.”

“I am,” Guy said. “Give me your mask.”

A terrible thought struck her as Marian worked at the knot on her mask. “You are planning something. Something to punish me.”

Guy jerked the mask from her hand. “Not everything is about you, Marian. Now go home, and stay there.”

“Guy—”

“Marian,” he warned.

“What about the betrothal ceremony tomorrow?” Her question was a test; she knew that the physician's evidence meant she no longer had to depend on Guy for safety, but she needed some idea of his intentions. And whether the king's return the next day would be soon enough.

His face darkened. “It's cancelled. I do not brook disloyalty. Especially not from my family.”

Marian looked at him a long moment, feeling both relieved and worried. He was in no mood to be reasoned with right now. She feared waiting until another opportunity presented itself, but she did not know what else she could do. He was letting her go with only the injuries she'd received at the hands of his men; she supposed she should not push her luck.

She nodded, then turned.

“And Marian—if the Nightwatchman is ever seen again, I will not show mercy.”

ROBIN

“Robin,” Little John said, and from the tone of his voice, Robin immediately knew that it was Marian. He dashed from his spot by the fireplace out the door, Sir Edward close on his heels. A figure moved toward them from the forest, walking slowly but steadily. “Marian!” he cried, and ran to meet her. He enveloped her in a hug and, weary, she sank into his arms. 

“Are you alright?” Sir Edward asked as he approached. She straightened, nodded, and embraced him as well.

“Come,” Robin said, surveying her injuries with worried eyes. “You can tell us everything inside.”

Robin stood back as Edward and the servants of Knighton fussed over Marian, bringing her food, ale, a lap rug. He could see that she did not particularly like it, but she submitted without complaint. His men sat quietly, concerned but mindful of their place and the danger that their very presence made. 

“Djaq,” Robin said quietly, “Will you work your magic?” She nodded and began to pick though the small pack she carried for medical supplies.

“What happened, Marian?” Edward asked, once she was settled and the servants had been sent away. “Where have you been?”

Marian bit her lip, reluctance written over her face. Robin came to squat by her chair. “We were worried for you.”

Her shoulders drooped. “It was Gisborne,” she said quietly.

Edward sat heavily in the chair opposite Marian. “Does he know?”

She nodded. In the long pause that followed, Djaq took the opportunity to kneel on Marian's other side to examine the weal at her temple.

“How did it happen?” Robin asked, trying to remain calm. The fact that her wounds were at Gisborne's doing—either by his own hand or that of one of his men—was almost enough to make him start out to Locksley immediately. But now was not the time, now was Marian's time. 

Marian sighed. “There was a woman. In the forest. She was being attacked by some men and I fought them off. I didn't think it was right to leave her alone in the forest at night.”

“How did Gisborne's men find you?”

Marian looked up at him, both guilt and defiance in her gaze. “She was going to Locksley. She was Gisborne's sister.”

Robin frowned. “Since when does Gisborne have a sister? Did you know about this?” he asked, looking to Sir Edward and Will, both of whom shook their heads. He looked back at Marian. “And you just took her there?”

“You would have done.”

“And I have five men to back me up!” Behind him, he could hear Much mutter something and Will hiss in response.

“I only took her close enough to see the village,” Marian said, rolling her eyes. “I'm not stupid.”

“You got caught!”

“Robin!” Edward snapped, and Robin dropped his head, chastened but still angry. She had been foolish, and she ought to know it—she had nearly been caught robbing the house as well. But he would respect Sir Edward's authority in his own house. Robin took a deep breath. “So he still had men out, and they found you.”

“He locked me in his milking shed all day and then he let me go.”

Robin glanced at Edward, frowning. “He just let you go?” 

“Isabella—his sister—came to see me during the day. She said she would speak for me.”

“And you trust her?” It all seemed far too convenient.

“I'm here, aren't I?” Sir Edward reached out and took Marian's hand. She smiled at him gratefully. “I think he's planning something, though.”

This time Edward looked to Robin. He had told the outlaws of his suspicions earlier, when they had first come to Knighton to check on Marian. But then, realizing that no one knew Marian's whereabouts, they had been too busy searching for her to discuss the matter further.

“Like what?” Marian asked.

Her father hesitated before responding. “I think the Sheriff is going to try and kill the King.”

Marian straightened. “What?”

“The Sheriff knows that Robin will testify to his crimes, and that he is a favorite of Richard's. I think he will take drastic measures before surrendering his power.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Now that we know you are safe, I am going to meet with the other lords I can trust. We must not let this happen.”

Marian nodded slowly. “Will the de Buslis be there?”

Robin regarded her intently.

“What did Sir Guy say, Marian?” Edward asked, an edge to his voice.

“He said the alyaunce was off.”

Robin felt a surge of joy. 

“That's a good thing,” Allan commented. Robin shot him a look. 

“Why?” Marian asked, frowning.

Robin sighed and looked back at her. “When we were out looking for you, we found the body of the physician who was going to testify against Gisborne. He was floating in the river, but he had been stabbed.” He had been afraid that, without Pitts to give testimony, Marian would once again resolve to marry Gisborne. Now she was in great danger, but at least she would not have to bind herself to him for life.

Marian's eyes widened.

“But Gisborne called the wedding off, so it's alright,” Much said.

“Not quite,” Will replied.

“We no longer have evidence of Gisborne's treason,” Robin said grimly, “but he has committed crimes enough in Nottingham that many will attest to tomorrow.”

Edward leaned forward and laid a careful hand on Marian's cheek. “I hate to leave you now. But it is our duty to protect the king.”

Marian nodded. “I understand.”

Edward drew her into a hug before standing. “I will be back by morning.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Djaq asked. 

Marian shook her head. “Just bumps and bruises. Nothing that a long bath won't ease.” She smiled in thanks as Djaq stood. 

“Be sure to get plenty of rest for the next few days. You will be fine, but do not push yourself.”

One by one they filed out the door with the rustle of cloaks and the clack of gathered weapons. Robin hung back until it was only him and Marian. She looked up at him, and suddenly fatigue seemed etched much more deeply on her face.

“Are you truly alright, Marian?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “A bath and rest are all I need.”

He looked at her a long moment, but she seemed to be telling the truth.

“I am glad.” He meant to stop there, but the next words pushed themselves up, tumbling over his tongue before he could stop them. “I don't know what I would have done if something had happened to you.”

After a moment Marian broke into a small smile. A smile Robin felt mirrored on his own face. “See you after we save the King.”

Marian's smile deepened, and Robin tucked the image into his heart as he ran out into the darkness.


End file.
